Thirty Nine
by dutchbuffy2305
Summary: Buffy has a moment of peace


**Thirty-nine**

Rating G

Spoilers: only in the back of my mind, not in the story

Timeline vaguely S7, nowish

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Buffy stood dreamily in a patch of sunlight and enjoyed a moment of total peace. There was nothing she could do to change things or speed things up, no responsibilities for a few minutes, just being Buffy doing nothing. She half-closed her eyes and looked at the motes of dust dancing in the ray of sunshine, and sighed a little sigh of contentment. She caught a reflection of light on the well-shined toes of her boots and felt the glow of virtuousness. Her working day was done, her boots were shiny, and she hoped her nose was not, but she didn't really care. 

"Thirty-six!" Mr. P. called out, and a little lilac-haired old lady stepped forward with doddery steps and put her slip on the counter, carefully smoothing it out for him to read.

"What can I do for you, Mrs. Barrabas?"

"Ten pounds of chicken livers, please," she said in her quavery old woman's voice, and Buffy's attention sharpened momentarily.

That was a lot of liver for one tiny old lady. Demon? Buffy's gaze drifted to her old black cloth coat, and noticed the dozens of black and white hairs on it. Nah, probably just cats. She retreated again in her little cocoon of temporary oblivion. In less than half an hour she was gonna sit on the front porch, on the swing and catch those last rays. It wasn't even spring, so the evils of skin cancer could be presumed absent as yet, and she'd be warmly bundled in a thick fleece sweater and have a fleece blanket over her knees. She would be warming her hands on a mug of, say, herbal tea? Soup? Something uncaffeinated and non-fattening and hot.

She thought back to a supper she'd had with her Mom on that same swing. Mom sipping wine, both of them eating pizza straight out of the box. Might even have been the last supper she and Mom had eaten together out there.

She just hoped that no one had beaten her to the swing. Like Dawn, or Willow, or any one of the dozen teenagers cluttering up her house. Yeah. Her shoulders were a little tense. She did a couple of rolls with her shoulders to ease it. The little old lady looked at her with disapproval when she was leaving the shop, listing like a damaged ship because of the huge bag of livers. What was it with these really old people? Was it the neck roll in public? Like no one ever stretched before World War Two?

"Thirty-seven!"

"I ordered a whole lamb, please." 

"Madison?"

"Um, yeah."

Hey. She knew that voice from somewhere. Oh, right, Amy. Now, she was willing to cut people a little slack on principle, but she bet Amy was up to no good with her lamb. She'd mention it to Willow.

Buffy shifted a step to stay in the sun, dropping her eyes shut. Too bad she hardly ever hunted in sunlight, wouldn't be so bad then. Lots of fresh air was a good thing, it was just darkness and cemeteries made you forget that little perk. Although moonlight was not of the total evil, sometimes. She remembered walking back home some nights, not talking to him, when the whole world was quiet, and she'd be the only living person, she thought, who was watching the gorgeous moonlight shine down on the tombs, and on people's platinum hair and so on.

"Thirty-eight!"

"Two pounds hamburger meat, please."

"Low fat?"

"Ordinary kind, please."

When something blocked out her sunlight, Buffy opened one eye to check out the shape of the man standing in front of her, the one making hamburgers tonight. Huge skanky black leather jacket, with a picture of a pile of skulls on the back. And yep, in love with his stomach, just like Xander. What was it with guys and beer and junk food? You didn't see the girls on Revello Drive bulging out of their pants. She thought of Xander's belly hanging down over the seal of Danthazar and smiled faintly. Crucifixion must be hard on the shoulders with all that extra weight. He should so take the example of someone they both knew and work out to get abs like his, or anyway eat way, way less. Although, to be fair, maybe it was impossible to get fat on a blood diet.

"Thirty-nine!"

She opened her eyes and stepped forward smiling.

"Hi Mr. P, a gallon of pig's blood, please."

She saw him check her out in the big tilted mirror that hung on the ceiling over the counter, like in most Sunnydale shops.

"I'm still standing in the sun," she reminded him.

"Whaddya need this for every day? Thought you were slaying 'em, not feeding 'em!"

Buffy thoughtfully sucked in her lower lip and nodded ruefully. "There's an exception to every rule, I guess."

Ponty said nothing, and silently measured out the blood and accepted her cash.

"Bye, Mr. P!"

"See ya tomorrow, Buffy."

She stepped out into the street and walked home at a leisurely pace. Check out that new English Pub, she thought. Looked attractive, but with that name it was just begging for demon clientele. The Hanged Man? She shook her head, smilingly. The British were insane, just think of Giles, and well, the other Englishman.

Dawn was in the kitchen, diligently opening frozen pizza packages for dinner. "Oh, great. Buffy, you went to the butcher's already? You're a rock!"

All was well at Casa Summers.

END


End file.
